


Miracle Day

by DinoDina



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Episode: s02e06 Reset, F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:39:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9452669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinoDina/pseuds/DinoDina
Summary: Tosh and Owen love each other. We all know that. They know that. But Owen is in a sort of denial. That, and he's sorta-kinda-maybe dead. Luckily, Tosh won't take "no" for an answer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written on 11-30-14. Cross-posted on ffn.

It was a cold and rainy day in Cardiff, a lot like any other. It was quiet and empty. Still in the early hours of the morning, the residents of the city were either asleep in their beds or in the beds of others. The Weevils, who didn't like the dust-like atmosphere of dawn, were down in their sewer dwellings. The Rift was peaceful, free of fluctuations, and the Hub of Torchwood Three was abandoned.

Nearly.

Almost all the lights were out. The gurgling fountain in the middle of the room gave off a soft glow thanks to whatever future chemicals Jack had added to it months previously. Toshiko's computers were asleep, only the little lights on them signifying their presence. The door to Jack's office was closed, not because it was protecting anyone's privacy, but because he was the boss. Gwen's work area, as well as Ianto's (in the tourist office, archives, and Hub), were dark and lonely.

Gwen, who had left early, was at home with Rhys. Jack and Ianto had disappeared soon after Tosh left.

But there was a light emanating from somewhere deep in the Hub, accompanied by a clattering of tools, muttered swears, and the scratching of a pencil.

It was none other than Owen Harper, the medic of Torchwood Three.

Anyone who had known him in London, before Katie died, before Torchwood, would have been surprised to find him here. They would have asked him why he was wasting away at work, as there surely was someone waiting for him at home. If any Cardiff ladies had walked in on him now, they would have told him they'd think him in a bar.

But what use is a wife or a bar to a dead man?

Owen could not breather, feel, eat. There was no blood rushing through his veins. He couldn't sleep. This was a major problem for him, just as big as his inability to drink and have sex. Now, his nights were empty and quiet. He began to spend his nights at the hub catching up on years worth of paperwork.

He was bored.

But what was he to do?

Bored and lonely, Owen continued the autopsy he had started on a blowfish-like alien that was shot by Jack when it had attacked Ianto. Owen guessed it was a distant cousin of the blowfish, based on its body structure and position of its internal organs.

He was almost shoulder deep in blowfish guts when the cog door opened with a groan and the alarms rung shrilly. It was late. No one other than Jack and Ianto needed the Hub at this time, and they used the invisible lift, partly because they enjoyed riding it like children on a ferris wheel and partly because it, for some reason, made Myfanwy behave better.

Owen grabbed his gun, which was on his desk, with slippery, bloody hands. He thought that it might damage the gun, but didn't put it down. Owen moved onto the stairs so that his back was to a wall. Taking a quiet breath, he crept up them, holding his gun out.

Only to come face to face with another gun.

"Don't shoot," he said, looking at the weapon rather than at who was holding it.

"I won't if you wont."

The owner of the other voice was clearly female. She too, was looking at the gun instead of Owen.

"Tosh?" he asked, following the hand holding the gun to her face.

"Owen!" she cried, putting down the weapon that was dangerously close to his nose. "I'm so sorry!"

"No, I'm sorry, Tosh," he said, bringing down his own gun.

It was quite unusual for the harsh Torchwood doctor to apologize. He would have blamed the other person. But this was Tosh.

"I-It's fine," she stuttered, coloring violently.

"So, Tosh," Owen tried to regain his composure. "Why're you here? Can't get a date?"

"No, nothing like that," she deflated. "Just. . . wanted to get some work done."

"Don't let me keep you," he grumbled.

Owen quickly turned away and stomped to his latest "patient". Tosh stared at his back, looking like she was going to say something, before going to her computers. Soon, the light from them began to illuminate the room.

Tosh worked silently, as she always did. She monitored the peaceful Rift ("Don't jinx us, Tosh!" Owen had meanly yelled at her the first time she did that) and filled out paperwork. Since at all of that she was naturally quick, Tosh soon started listening to music on her phone.

Meanwhile, Owen was alone. He was tired (he would have been), hungry (if he could eat), horny (oh, he wished he was), and so, so, extremely confused.

He didn't hear Tosh clacking away at her computers, didn't hear them whirring. He barely heard her breathe. Not that he was listening for it! No, of course not. She was _Tosh_ , after all.

And Tosh was currently fighting and internal battle. _To be or not to be, that is the question? No, not that. But close enough._

_I've never wanted to possess the ability to read minds. Not like Tosh (damn that Mary),_ Owen thought. _I wouldn't say I'm not curious about what people think about, curious about what they thought about_ me _. Tosh falls into that category. Kind of._ _It's not that she's attractive, per say, but. . . yes, dammit, she is! One problem: I'm dead. Very, very, very (except for the six feet under part) dead. Tosh loves me. I know that. Who doesn't? She doesn't stand a chance with me. Nor do I with her._

"Owen?" Tosh asked timidly, leaning over the railing and looking at the doctor and his 'patient'. "Um. . ."

"Speak up, Tosh," he ordered, cleaning his tools. "I don't speak Shy Little Girl."

"I wanted to talk to you," she spoke cautiously, ignoring the insult. "About what I said. . . after, y'know—"

"We already did that, Tosh," he cut her off rudely, his words firm but with a tired quality to them.

"But—"

"'But' nothing," he said with finality. "Tosh. . . you told me you loved me."

"I did," she agreed.

"And we talked about it," he was now wiping his hands. "What more do you want?"

"I don't _want_ anything," Tosh declined, but furrowed her eyebrows when she saw Owen turn away from her once more (like always). "No, wait. I _do_ want something from you. I want you to fucking listen to me for a change!"

Owen turned back to her, slowly applauding.

"Stop it," she mumbled, ashamed of her outburst.

"Kitty has claws," he complimented with a leer, leaning against the cleaned autopsy table.

"I'm not a household pet," she scolded him irritably.

"Because people actually like to spend time with those," he answered.

"Damn you, Owen Harper!" she cried, angry at both him and the tears filling her eyes.

"I wish," he said with something akin to a sigh, as Tosh had clearly struck a nerve.

"I'm sorry," Tosh answered, deflating as well.

Owen didn't return the apology, but he drew up his swirly chair and indicated with his chin that Tosh could sit in it if she wanted to continue the conversation. She did, so she made her way down the stairs, holding onto the railing carefully.

"Can we restart this?" she asked, on the edge of the seat.

"Yes," Owen answered, standing up straight, bracing himself for what was to come. "What was it you wanted, Tosh?"

"I wanted to talk to you," she said with a smile, happy at he second chance. "About what I said."

"We went over this already," Owen repeated, replaying the previous scene, though without any of his earlier malice.

"We did," she replied. "And we came to an understanding."

"So why?" he wondered. "Why come all this way, so early, to talk about something we already discussed, something that could break out already fragile agreement?"

"Because it wasn't good enough!" Tosh cried. "It may have worked for you, but it didn't for me."

"Then get to it," Owen replied. "Don't you have any other guys to spontaneously proclaim your love to?"

"No!" she gasped.

"Good," Owen smiled slightly, then caught himself. "They'll try to kill us, too."

Tosh gaped at his cruel reference to Mary. Just like Dianne, that was behind them now. Or so she thought.

"You're the only one," she shook her head.

"I'm honored," he sneered. "I'm the only one you give a spur-of-the-moment blurb about love."

"Yeah," she agreed. "But it's not spur-of-the-moment."

"Tosh, I was dead," he said monotonously. "We all know how it goes. You think you're losing—about to loose—me permanently. You say the first thing that comes into your head."

"But. . ." Tosh's words got stuck in her throat as she noticed Owen's hands at her shoulders.

"'But' nothing," Owen repeated his words from earlier. "I understand. It happens."

"No. . . it doesn't," Tosh pushed his hands off gently, reluctantly. "It really, really doesn't."

"What do you mean, Tosh?" Owen furrowed his eyebrows, confused at Tosh's refusal of physical contact.

"I mean that you're wrong," Tosh stood up and inched towards the stairs, ready to escape at a moment's notice. "It wasn't spur-of-the-moment."

"You mean. . ." Owen gaped.

"You know I love you!" Tosh cried. "Everyone does! Why do insist on ignoring the fact that I said it?"

"Because I can't!" Owen would have burst into tears as well if he could. "I can't admit it to you. . . to anyone. . . because. . . I can't. . . Tosh, I just can't. . ."

"I can."

And just like that Tosh's lips were on Owen's.

He couldn't feel it. The only reason he knew it was happening was that the top of Tosh's head was all he could see. If he could still smell, Tosh's scent would be filling his up. What he remembered on it—oh, he remembered it!-was that it was intoxicating.

He wished he could feel it. He wished he could smell her. He wished that he was something other than the _thing_ he was. He might as well have been a mannequin being kissed by a beautiful woman.

And then he wasn't.

Owen tore away from Tosh to gasp in a breath, his fingers getting caught in her hair.

"Ow!" he shouted, cradling his hand, some of Tosh's hair still stuck to it.

"You. . . you. . ." Tosh gaped.

"It hurts. . ." Owen breathed. "It hurts!"

Now that he could feel the pain from his broken fingers, and Tosh's hair stuck to them, he noticed that blood was rushing to his cheeks, as well as to other areas. The cut on his hand, the one that was supposed to be permanently held together with string, itched under the bandage.

"How?" Tosh asked.

"How the hell should I know?" Owen grouched with a disbelieving note in his note, the gruffness just for show.

"How do you feel?" Tosh wondered.

"I feel," Owen answered, still in awe about his un-undeadness. "I _feel_!"

"What do you feel?" Tosh asked softly, moving closer to him, drawn there by both his gentle hand on her waist and the desire to feel him.

"I feel good," Owen breathed against Tosh's mouth. "I feel love."

Before, Owen couldn't feel the soft lips on his. Before, he couldn't smell the shampoo and the faint perfume on Tosh's hair and neck. He wasn't able to feel Tosh's soft skin through her thin shirt. He couldn't feel the pain in his hand as it got caught on Tosh's belt. Before, Owen was dead.

But now he wasn't.


End file.
